Einarr

Reflections on Dying (Backstory)
"It is uncertain, to me, now which plane I reside in. As we make camp in the grassy fields outside of the Cairn Hills, I feel as though there is value in retrospection. Too often have I used my divine eyes to look forward through the stars; through time; through eyes that are not my own, that it becomes novel again to recount my own reliving. I remember the fall. I remember the chasm swallowing me, when Lord Soth spake his final words of ruin and the cost of my careless leap was paid for in frightful depths. The terminal speed with which I plummeted though nothingness, where one would normally be buffeted by air and deafened by the roaring, rushing gust of pneuma escaping mortal bindings, there was nothing to feel in the collapsing Domain of Dread. Lonely was the sensation of knowing my own hubris, where other senses fell quiet. Though, here I am.

The heaving of a giant. The life force of his blood beating against granite cliffs, withering mountains as his palm read through the rivers cut out of the land. So it was, in the old Norska thought, that Morrleib and Mannslieb were the lungs of the fallen giant, guiding the ebb and flow of the Skraevold coast and moving his blood across the plains. Eivar was born the Morr, and I, the Mann. Hero as he were, he was never free of the Morrslieb mark and under the Morrslieb gaze was destined that he would be betrayed. My brother wore his cursed omen well. The looming threat bestowed to him at birth distilled within him a unque courage; of that dark body of hopelessness would a gilding of courage form - a trait that maketh the finest of dragonslayers.

But the mantle of hero was not for I, no. My fate had no predestined path and I designed to wrought it from the stars myself. Divinations in the Aeling tradition were few, but venerable. Betwixt blackened fingers of anthrocomancy, and gentle tremors of dowsing I would toll the ether and find meaning in phlogiston. There is no head-swinging glory in divination, but hungry never did I go when others were eager to unravel the wanton and wild weavings of fortune.

I am old now. I am apparently dead now, but will'd back by Vargle. These old eyes strain and this old brain strains harder. A Dwarf crests the hills before us. I leave now to inquire about the area and about the days to come.”    -Einarr, The Observer

Interactions with Marwen
"The toll this terrible crusade has taken on the lands is evident in every post and station we have past as we made our way south, but nowhere has this been more poignant than the great city of Murosburg! The grandeur of the gatehouse opened up to mostly empty streets, with a few disenchanted stragglers moping and meandering where it was clear that lavish society once flourished. I have seen the rocky, frosted tundra outside of Skraevold seem a more inviting destination than what I witnessed on my arrival into the port town. Nonetheless, our confrontation with the cultists and our many days of travel after left me very eager to visit my most anticipated terminus: The Ale Houses!

So we didn’t save the boy... but we still have our health right? So why not belly up the bar and wet my lips a little. Over one-a tankard too many is where I met Marwen the Drow! The general diaspora in the wake of Aldir's resurgence have brought many a vagrant to and fro, but to see a drow in this corner of the world was certainly odd and I couldn’t help but to steal a seat at his table, much to his apparent displeasure. He seemed distrustful of me (and everyone for that matter) at first, but warmed up after one, or seven frothy mugs. As luck would have it, he too dabbled in the arcane arts, but he ensured me that it was Drow, not Man, who were the paramount of spellcasters. "What a troll's ass!", I thought, but I liked him. We talked for a while and he eyed my spellbook.

I saw him often enough in the days that followed that we decided to practice magics with one another. I divined with him and he demonstrated his evocation prowess to me. His shaped spells were particularly impressive as he would bend the elements around him, very deliberately and precisely manifesting chaos on his targets. Of course, a healthy amount of boasting would follow each of his demonstrations: That drow could make a Bearsonling seem modest! Regardless, I would always make sure to take diligent notes, as there were always kernels of knowledge to be extracted while he bloviated. While we were different in many ways, and had many different philosophies on the topics of magics, what we did share was mutual ambition bring out the potential in one another. The laws of this city prohibit excessive casting of magic, but we knew where to exercise out powers without drawing too many guard’s attention.

All good things come to an end though. Marwen, as arrogant as he was, knew that my spellbook also contained many of my wilder inscriptions. As the Aeling diviner, there are many terrible and many awe-striking things I have seen across many planes of existence. They are not other for eyes to see! I could tell he wanted to peer into the bound abyss and learn the things I have seen, but it must not be allowed. The book draws the interest of many, but I can feel when men are drawn to its pages, desiring to reap my secrets from the crop of my mind. In any case, during one of evenings of too much ale, I left the room to go, ah, "punish the porcelain" as these southerners say. I came back to find Marwen helping himself to my tome. An argument broke out between us and we were removed from the tavern. I may have called him a "chimney sweep bastard", which I’m told was very uncouth. Those drows are proud people. Anyway, I don’t see Marwen much anymore. Interesting fellow.”